Trials of an Analytic Cure
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.
1. INTRO

**Title:** Trials of an Analytic Cure

**Summary:** Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.

**Disclaimer:** Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.

**Author's Note:** Based on a rather interesting dream I had. Hope I can write it as well as I've envisioned it.

...

* * *

**INTRO**

* * *

"There's a survivor."

"Impossible! There's never been-"

"No, we found a survivor. In the back bedroom."

"Male or female?"

"Male, and he's just a kid."

"Bring him in. Now."

…

Escorted by five large men, all in business suits and sunglasses, all sporting nice neat facial hair and white latex gloves, a small boy in an over-sized jacket with a blood-soaked left sleeve was held firmly by the shoulders and guided up the front steps of a media-infested institute. Reporters slammed into each other, all pressing microphones toward the child and the large men, all demanding answers.

_"Who is the boy?!"  
"What of his parents?!"  
"Can we just get a word with him?!"  
"Is he okay?!"  
"Does this have anything to do with the string of abductions lately?!"  
"Would you be willing to tell your story to Oprah?!"_

The onslaught of questions kept coming and coming, a barrage of words no one cared to heed.

Yes, there had been several cases of abduction without a trace of evidence left behind, save for a single piece of paper with a bold-faced number ranging between one and eight, which had been left at the residence of the abducted. It had spammed every news channel and paper; over the past couple of days, news had reached nearly every corner of the globe... because it has happened before, and it was happening again.

An even number of victims, chosen by an unknown person(s), vanished for a number of days, only to turn up as corpses strewn about a blood-spattered house in an inconspicuous location. And those corpses, all of them missing a left hand for reasons unknown.

As far as authorities know, this has happened at least three times, most likely done as a sick game or ritual.

Usually, seven or eight corpses turn up, not a left hand to be found on or off the bodies.

The authorities had an address sent to them from an anonymous untraceable source -this is usually how it went, as if the person behind it all was mocking their lack of competence and giving them a personal FAQ on where to go. Then, as customary, several squad cars, no less than three ambulances, a coroner, and a vast number of nosy reporters and the occasional nosy citizen would all make their way to said address.

CAUTION tape would line the perimeters and the authorized personel would storm the entrance, gun and flashlight in hand and authoritative voice in check as they announced their entrance and began to explore and collect photographic evidence before allowing the next stream of investigators.

It was on such an investigation that the authorities found, for the first time in what is being called the_ HLiS-C murder case, _a living victim, left hand gone and bloody wrist crudely bandaged as he sat in the bedroom reading an encyclopedia... as if nothing was wrong. Then...

_"There's a survivor!"_

_..._

Each step the boy took looked agonizing, his knobby knees and lanky frame seemed to move on sheer will alone as gashes wound up his legs and blood marred his the majority of his body, staining pale flesh and tattered clothes a grisly scarlet. Beneath the too red left sleeve was a gnarly stump where a hand once was.

A living specimen of a live-action horror flick.

Entering the institute, he remained stoic, eyes calculating and expression stony. He bit his lip as he was led to an office, and only once he was seated in a chair in front of a big desk did his escorts leave and shut the door behind them.

An old man with ring-rimmed glasses sat behind the desk, a scowl of disbelief on his face. "So, you're a survivor of the HLiS-C murder case, how fortunate of you. Medical attention will be provided shortly, as will a psychological evaluation. But first, I'd like to have a word with you... Now, what is your name."

"B-Beyond."

"Beyond? That's quite an unusual-"

"Beyond Birthday."

"Well, Beyond, I know this is going to be a bit uncomfortable for you, but would you mind-"

"You want me to tell you what happened in that house."

"There's no rush, child. You're probably very upset, and-"

"I'll tell you..."

And the child, with black hair and eyes as red as the spatters on his clothes, he sat back and took a moment to reminisce. His eyes glazed over as if recalling something fond, and his mouth quirked into something of amusement.

Inhaling deeply and exhaling long and slow, he spoke...

"It's happened before, and it'll happen again. But never in the same place twice."

"What?" The old man spoke softly, encouragingly. "What happened?"

"It's probably happening right now, actually. You can't stop it."

"What?" He tried again, less patient.

The child shrugged. "Get me some jam, and I'll tell you."

"Jam?"

"Yeah, strawberry. I like it." With those words, the child shrugged off his jacket and revealed the full gore of his would-be hand. The mess of torn flesh and decaying tissue surrounded by coagulating blood gave off a foul stench that reeked of infection. Further inspection revealed a collection of small white maggots burrowing.

"Your hand," the old man said with a sour expression, face turning a sickly shade and bile rising in his throat. "What-"

"Jam," Beyond said simply, paying no mind to the obviously painful injury or the old man's concern.

The elder man grit his false teeth and sighed before pressing a button on the intercom and requesting the desired item: in this case '_jam_.' Only a few minutes passed in silence (save for the child's occasional hum or question about some decorative figure or another), and then a suited man came in, placing a jar of strawberry jam on the table before making an unceremonious exit.

Beyond quickly snatched it up, curling his injured arm around the jar to hold it close to his chest as he twisted the lid off with the spindly fingers of his good hand, breaking the seal and dropping the tin cover to the floor.

Then, "Would you like a spoon, Beyo-" and the man tried to ask but stopped, watching with knitted brows as the child dipped his fingers into the slop of red before bringing the substance to his mouth and eating, groaning in an unsettling manner between mouthfuls, repeating this ritual hurriedly and devouring the entire contents of the jar in what had to be record time.

Once finished, Beyond carefully maneuvered the jar onto the desk and wiped his hand on the hard oak top, seeming to marvel at the smeared mess left behind. Then, after another moment, he made eye contact with the elder man and began again...

"It starts with a house. Nothing special about it. Just a normal house. And they put people in it."

"Beyond... What house? Who's '_they_'?"

Beyond giggled and kicked his feet, eyes glinting mischievously. Then, he stopped. Stopped kicking his feet, stopped laughing, stopped showing any emotion in his eyes; he just fell flat. He slowly wrapped his arms around himself in a makeshift hug before whispering "Nobody knows who '_they_' are. They just... put people in the bedrooms. Everyone gets a special watch and a set of rules..."

"Special watch? And, what kind of rules?" The old man was intrigued, he leaned close, eying the child and taking in every detail the child was willing to offer.

"The watch goes on the left hand, always; it doesn't tell time in hours and minutes. It counts in days, and it only goes to THREE. It also has a sensor on the underside of it, where the batteries usually go in watches; the sensor monitors body temperature and pulse."

"Why would something like that be-"

"The watch is so '_they_' can tell if you're alive or dead. It's important. Please don't interrupt my story, or I won't tell you anything anymore. And, can I get some more jam?"

...

* * *

**And, here's the intro to what I'm thinking should be 5-7 chapters long.**


	2. CURE ONE

**Title:** Trials of an Analytic Cure

**Summary:** Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.

**Disclaimer:** Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.

**Author's Note:** Nothing spectacular here. Just introducing characters, but the upcoming chapters are guaranteed to be more interesting.  
**Also: **You'll notice that this chapter is titled Cure One. All chapters will be titled Cure (chapter number).  
**WARNING: **If you were expecting more of Beyond, you may find yourself disappointed. He's not a primary character.  
**Personal Thanks: **to all my readers, reviewers, followers, and fav'ers.

...

* * *

**CURE ONE**

* * *

It was late in the evening, or early morn: no clock to tell time and the only clue was the darkening sky outside seen through a caged window. Disheartening and almost foreshadowing, the lights in the room seemed to flicker, the bulb wanting to die but still holding onto life.

A lone figure occupied the room, hair reminiscent of a raven's frock and eyes gleaming a soulless black. This man, known better as a letter than a name, sat wide awake with his knees drawn to his chest. From a short distance, he stole a glance at the sheet of paper on a nearby stand.

On regular notebook paper, written in plain blue ink... as harmless as a shopping list but far more sinister... were the Rules.

_WELCOME, OCCUPANT!  
FOR THE NEXT **THREE DAYS**, THIS IS YOUR HOME._  
_YOU MAY EAT, SLEEP, AND BATHE AS YOU CHOOSE._  
_BUT YOU ARE NOT ALONE. 7 OTHERS WILL JOIN YOU SHORTLY AND YOU'LL SEPARATE INTO YOUR DESIGNATED TEAMS._  
_**8** OF YOU HAVE ENTERED THIS HOUSE, BUT ONLY **1** MAY LEAVE._

_REVOLVER / LOW AMMUNITION, LIMIT ONE PER TEAM.  
KNIFE, LIMIT ONE PER TEAM.  
ONE PERSON ON EACH TEAM MUST BE UNARMED AT ALL TIMES. **NO EXCEPTIONS**._

_BEDROOMS AND BATHROOMS ARE NO-KILL CENTERS / SAFE ZONES._

_BREAK RULES AND SUFFER DIRE CONSEQUENCES. **YOU ARE BEING WATCHED**.  
**FAILURE** TO ELIMINATE ALL OTHER OCCUPANTS IN 3 DAYS RESULTS IN** MASS TERMINATION**._

Staring at the ominous print, he found himself lost in thought about the isolation at hand. Cut off from his own world and thrust into another, the air seemed stale. His fingers chilled, his wrist weighed down by a foreign device, he was trapped... not just behind these walls, but between his morals and ability to discern and adapt- his will to live: an unwavering force tucked behind an acute structure of veiling pacifism.

Stealing himself from that particular line of thinking, L averted his eyes from the paper and buried his face against his knees. He had no idea what force had brought him to this awful place. Last he recalled, he was studying for an upcoming college exam. Then he simply woke up in this unfamiliar bed. Sure, he'd looked around, careful and quiet, discreet; he'd unsuccessfully tried all the doors and windows. And upon realizing that every bedroom was occupied by an unconscious occupant, he'd retreated to the safety of this room where he could contemplate the whys and hows of the world mid-warp.

...

Dug up from the harshness of his own reality, a blonde teen's angst could be seen through the tossing and turning in the bed as he slept. An unconscious tantrum.

A restless soul caught in an earth-bound body. His real name as forgotten as the family he didn't have. The nickname _Mello,_ a curse to be reckoned with; he bore the name and allowed nothing to hold him back.

Nails painted black and hair mussed about like addled straw, he scratched at the unfamiliar surface of flannel sheets. Blue eyes fluttered, long lashes scraping an ill-scented pillow as awareness slowly bled through his system.

Mello was groggy and tired and reaching to turn off an alarm clock that was not present. Groaning and scrunching his nose against the pillow, he kicked off a blanket and forced himself up. Once his eyes were open, he willed them to adjust to his surroundings; a surge of confusion flooded him upon finding himself in a strange environment. "Fucking hell," he murmured, tossing his legs over the side of the bed and getting to his feet. He looked around wildly, fighting to recall what event could have led him to such a predicament.

Frustrated and coming up empty, he combed a hand through his hair and growled when something caught and tugged at his locks. After tugging uselessly for a moment, he yanked hard, gritting his teeth as several strings of hair were pulled from his head, follicles attached. Growling irritably, he caught sight of the culprit: a strange bracelet of sorts wrapped tightly around his wrist and now holding captive precious strands of gold.

Fighting off his own ill temper, he tried to remove the strange bracelet to no avail; it had no latch or clasp and was firmly attached.

Eventually giving up on the device's removal, he stormed out of the room, only to bump into a wide-eyed redhead who stood with poor posture and trembling legs.

"Watch where the fuck you're going, you fuckin' ginger!" Mello spat, raging first and considering his actions afterwards.

The redhead seemed to shrink away, intimidated. "Sorry," he murmured before holding up a sheet of paper and nervously stammering "D-Did you get one of these?"

Snatching the paper, Mello read the Rules.

_WELCOME, OCCUPANT..._

Golmore green eyes closed tightly as a hesitant breath was drawn. "M-My name's Matt. I-I was just-" the redhead stammered in a quiet breath, only to be interrupted by the domineering blonde.

"Well, Matt," Mello said, crumpling the paper and tossing it aside, "lets figure this shit out. I'm smart, and I doubt you're a complete idiot, so let's go." Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the redhead's hand -mentally taking note that the redhead also sported a strange bracelet- and proceeded down the corridor.

The two of them, hand in hand like long lost friends, perused passed a bedroom and peeked in, catching sight of a dark haired young man perched oddly on the bed. Mello waved his hand in greeting. "Coming or not?" His tone was crisp and non-threatening, but also sudden and unexpected by the lone occupant in the room.

L was startled from his thoughts as his eyes darted to the intruding speaker; then after a moment of careful consideration, he nodded, got to his feet and followed with his shoulders hunched and senses alert. The three walked together down the hall and then down a flight of stairs, soon coming to a sparsely furnished living room already occupied by four others.

A blonde female, scantily clad with hands on her hips and too much lacquer on her lips.

Two well dressed adults with dark hair: one female with a face that could inspire Picasso, and one male with a stony expression and thick-rimmed glasses.

Lastly, a small boy in the corner playing with an old toy that he'd probably found somewhere in the house.

And the introductions began.

"Misa was wondering where the others would be! She woke up alone with an ugly bracelet and a scary note too!" The blonde woman squealed and flailed her arms dramatically. "So glad to meet everyone!"

"Kiyomi Takada, I'm a reporter for Channel-"

"Everybody knows who you are Miss Takada. The only shame of you being here is that if you make it out, you'll spam the media with your incessant bullshit." The man who said this cast a steely glare at the aforementioned woman before adjusting his glasses and formally greeting "Hello, I am Mikami Ter-"

"We're not here to make friends," came a soft monotonous voice, drawing the attention to a small figure in the corner sporting white hair, matching pajamas, and paler (if possible) skin. "Introductions are hardly necessary. Better if we just divide, conquer, and exit as quickly and calmly as possible. There is no need to make a spectacle of the situation at hand."

"And that little sad sack of flour is Near," Misa sputtered before offering a rather exuberant smile. "Misa thinks, if we work together, there's a way to get out of here. If we just..."

"Wait," L said suddenly, all eyes falling upon him in that instant. "We've all read the letter, right?" He watched his audience give a chorus of nods and affirmatives. "There's supposed to be eight of us, but I'm only counting seven."

...

* * *

**Well, the 'Rules' have been disclosed and we've met most of our characters. Stay tuned for upcoming anarchy. (Because, really, did you expect anything less?)**

**-Also, to inspire and mislead my readers/reviewers, here's a line from the middle of the next chapter!**

Mello shrugged and grabbed the zipper of his vest between his index finger and thumb before slowly pulling it down, making a sensual reveal of the flesh beneath. "Shirts off, gentlemen."


	3. CURE TWO

**Title:** Trials of an Analytic Cure

**Summary:** Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.

**Disclaimer:** Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.

**Author's Note:** Some interesting stuff here, but the action starts next chapter! (Also, I'm proud to say that this chapter clears 2k words!)  
**  
ALSO, let it be known that I am (most likely) the first person to ever describe Mello's eyes as Feywood Blue and Matt's as Golmore Green. (Both are references to my fav RPG. The Feywood is a mist-strewn place known for heavy fog, foul creatures, and distracting mirages. Golmore Jungle is a dimly lit jungle occupied by venomous plants, panthers, fierce hellhounds, and two dinosaurs (There's also an optional boss known as the Elder Wyrm). Both are great locations in the game, and I thought to use their names for adjectives. Feywood Blue and Golmore Green just sound good to me.)**

Enjoy.

...

* * *

**CURE TWO**

* * *

Realizing that someone was missing, the seven occupants in the living room all looked about with concern; a feeling of dread could only harmonize the ragtag group of individuals. But where emotion compromises, rationality cuts a path of absolution.

"This is statistically unpleasant. If the notes we've received hold any verdict, seven of us will be dispatched within three days, and the remaining person will be free to go. I have no fondness for the position we're in by not yet finding the eighth person." L's words, concise, as expected from the would-be detective.

And then there came the shriek of the up-and-coming model. "Misa's scared!"

As if on cue, a suave brunette male walked in, holding up his own note. "I suppose this is the meeting room?" He smiled charmingly when everyone's gazes met his own. "Light Yagami," he introduced. "Now, before everyone panics or anything gets out of hand, we need to tackle this rationally. Does anyone know how we all got here?"

"Oh, Misa remembers watching a movie like this once! The killer is always the best friend!"

Mello sneered at the blonde female. "This isn't a movie, and no one's dead yet!"

"Calm down, there's no need to fight," reasoned Mikami.

"Of course not," added Takada. "No one needs to die. Now, what about the windows..."

"No good," L said simply. "Every door is barred from the outside, as are the windows. As far as I can see, there are no visible signs of life, no landmarks, nothing of value to be seen."

"I propose we split into teams and prepare for the worst," Near said, getting to his feet and patting his clothes to rid himself of imaginary filth.

Light took on a thoughtful expression. "Anyone know what's going on with these?" He gestured to the contraption on his wrist.

L shrugged. "I've examined it, but it seems fairly difficult to remove."

It was then that the redhead known as Matt timidly spoke. "I think I know what they are... to an extent without proper examination. They appear to be some sort of monitor, but they also emit a pulse of their own. Theoretically, if the frequency was high enough, it could send one of us into shock... or worse. Depending on the intent of our captors, it could either be harmless or really bad."

Glances of various states of emotion were shared as a heavy silence began to loom. The very air they breathed seemed to thicken.

Then L spoke, cutting the tension with an easy expulsion of common sense. "The idea of splitting into teams might not be such a bad idea, but not for the sake of violence. We should do some thorough exploring, see if we can find a phone to call for help. See if anyone else might be present. See if there might be another way out. Or, at the very least, we should look for necessities. Though they're likely to be limited, I'd like to take inventory of what supplies are available."

"I agree with you, L," chimed in Light, who received a reproving look from his fellow occupants.

"How did you know his name was L?" asked Mikami with a skeptic brow raised.

Light shrugged off any implication and answered "I listened in on your little meet-and-greet. Forgive me, but if one of you had been armed and dangerous, I wasn't about to blindly jump in the line of fire. Now... how should we go about picking teams?"

"Like gym class," Mello said instantly. "We vote on team captains, and the team captains take turns selecting their mates."

Near, who'd been mostly silent and rather emotionless, frowned deeply. "I'm afraid I'd be picked last, yet I assure you I am a valuable asset."

"Shut it, pj-boy," Mello said, annoyed of the younger boy's voice, let alone his presence. "I thought of it, so I should be one of the team captains. Any objections?"

Three hands shot in the air, those hands belonging to L, Mikami, and Misa.

"What's the fuckin' deal?!" Mello cursed, clenching his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms.

Misa waved her arm, hand still raised like a nerdy front-row student determined to get and hold the teacher's attention. "Misa thinks that if anyone blonde gets to be team captain, it should be she!"

Once the blonde concluded, Mikami stepped in, arms folded. "You're a petulant child, Mello. You can't be expected to make well-informed decisions."

And then came L's reasoning. "Because of the numbers."

Hearing this, Takada gasped. "The numbers! I forgot about that! In the infamous HLiS-C murder cases, everyone who was abducted had a note with a number ranging between 1 and 8 left at their homestead! Oh, but we have no way of knowing our numbers..."

L brought a thumb to his mouth and chewed a bit at his nail. "Hn, it was never publicized, but each of the corpses had numbers drawn on their backs with acrylic paint... I'm willing to bet that the numbers correspond with the ones that were left on paper at their homes. If that is indeed the case, we very well may have been marked, possibly for our teams to be decided. After all, the list of Rules we were given does say _'separated into designated teams.'_ The questions are, what are our numbers, and how are we meant to be split up."

Mello shrugged and grabbed the zipper of his vest between his index finger and thumb before slowly pulling it down, making a sensual reveal of the flesh beneath. "Shirts off, gentlemen." Baring his flesh and turning his back to them, a large blue number 2 greeted the eyes of his onlookers.

Mikami thinned his lips into a firm line to show his distaste before resigning and saying "As much as I dislike the idea, the temporary removal of our shirts is inevitable. Out of courtesy for the fairer sex, I suggest that the females visit another room to-"

And Misa was not only topless, but bra-less as well; her perky breasts bounced as she hopped in place and asked "Oh, what number is Misa? Such a fun and naughty game this is!" A flirtatious giggle followed as she coyly folded her arms over her breasts in faux-shyness and turned her back to them.

"That makes Misa number 4," Light stated matter-of-factually. "Who's next? Or shall we do this without really taking turns? Also, are we pairing numbers _1-4_ and _5-8_? Or-"

"No," L interjected plainly. "I believe _evens_ and _odds_ will do for this. In the off chance that the numbers coincide with some sort of 'ranking system,' the numbers 1-4 very well may have a significant advantage over 5-8, and if that is the case, pairing evens and odds will level the playing field."

"Misa's mind is blown!"

"Doesn't take much to do that, does it?" Mello whispered in Matt's general direction.

In turn, Matt pursed his lips to keep from commenting, though his body shook as though holding back laughter.

"I suppose I'll reveal my number next," Light said in a tone that suggested he'd rather hurry the event along. He slipped out of his blazer, folded it and neatly sat it aside before unbuttoning his shirt, removing the fine material and draping it precariously over his angled forearm before turning to show off his own back.

"7," Takada announced, her eyes lustfully tracing the brunette's contours; she blushed and turned away as he began to re-dress. "I'll show my number next, but please don't ogle." She feigned innocence but the heated glance she spared Light spoke volumes of poison. Turning away, she bared herself in a manner that she hoped was suggestive and appealing, inwardly hissing when Near spoke before she'd even fully removed her shirt.

And the little albino's words were: "It's a 6, Kiyomi Takada. I'll thank you to trouble us no further with that display."

Takada scowled and fixed her clothes, snubbing her nose and stepping back to show that she was indeed offended.

Mello's brows knitted together as something seemed to register. "If evens are pairing together, and odds are pairing together... then so far, that puts me with Misa and Takada. How is this fair?" He balked, stomach churning and and mind reeling at the obvious incompetence of his team in the making. When no one showed any sign of sympathy for the blonde youth (unless you count a brief apologetic shrug from the redhead), he sighed and grumbled "My last teammate better kick ass."

Mikami was next to reveal his number. Cold and collected, showing no emotional attachment, he treated his clothing removal like a business meeting. He was sure with his movements and confident in his unveiling as the number 5 came into view of his companions. "Number 5 puts me with Light."

Takada glared heatedly at Mikami, as if jealous for whatever reason, though if anyone noticed, they certainly refrained from showing any reaction.

L casually came next, pulling his shirt up over his head and allowing everyone else to see.

"FUCKING 8!" Mello cheered louder than necessary, grinning victoriously. "You fuckin' hoes better watch it. I may be saddled with Misa and Whatsherbitchface, but I've also got L!"

"Why is this a reason to celebrate, Mello?" Near asked with a bored tone. "Does L possess more ability than you? Must you rely on others to overcome the obvious lack of control you have over your emotions?"

"Shut it, cottontail!" Mello snapped enraged by the sheer existence of the younger male. "Maybe I'm just glad that I know my full team; so that means that you're on the other team, and I don't have to see your pale ass torso to know that!"

"Mello, please quiet your temper for a moment," L requested, but his tone accompanied with the look in his eye left no room for disobedience.

In the next awkward few seconds, everyone crossed paths with one another, scooting past and bumping into each other until two split semi-circles were formed around an antique coffee table, and the teams were adequately divided.

Team Even: Mello(2), Misa(4), Takada(6), L(8)  
Team Odd: Near(1), Matt(3), Mikami(5) Light(7)

"I want to be civil, but you know what this means, don't you?" Light said with a forlorn expression, hanging his head to suggest further dismal feelings toward his own understanding.

L nodded dutifully and responded in kind. "Now that we've formed teams, we are most likely going to see the opposing team as a threat. At the very least, a line of distrust has been drawn, whether or not that fact has become conscious. Working to get out may very well become a war."

"We can only trust our own team," was Takada's indictment.

"No," Mikami interjected. "Not even our teams. Even if we play as a team, only one person can make it out. War or no war, unless we're in a bedroom or bathroom -which I believe are the Safe Zones- we'll be wise to be on guard and ready to attack or defend as necessary."

"Play as a team? Guard, attack, defend," commented Matt, just barely loud enough to hear, "you make it sound like a game..." His fingers twitched subtly, though whether the slight motion was due to anxiety or excitement, it was unknown.

All eyes seemed to be set in their own glare of situational determination, though no stare was quite as intense as the blonde male's own Feywood blue eyes. His mouth, a soft belt of tissue, released his next words carefully. "Before we split or make any kind of move against one another, we should go over the rules regarding weapons. I recall that someone on each team has to be unarmed at all times. There has to be a fair way to decide this."

"O-M-G, Misa votes Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Mo, haha!"

...

* * *

**Team Even: Mello(2), Misa(4), Takada(6), L(8)**  
**Team Odd: Near(1), Matt(3), Mikami(5) Light(7)**

**So, these are our teams. Shit gets real next chapter!  
**


	4. CURE THREE

**Title:** Trials of an Analytic Cure

**Summary:** Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.

**Disclaimer:** Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for delay! Personal life is going well!

**_Team Even: Mello(2), Misa(4), Takada(6), L(8)_**  
**_Team Odd: Near(1), Matt(3), Mikami(5) Light(7)_**

...

* * *

CURE THREE

* * *

Though time passed, the sun refrained its rise and night held the elongated chorus of monotony: a reputable constant blanketing a house full of paranoid strangers.

Those strangers, each with a life, a motive, and a desire to make it out alive. To do this, they needed to be the last one standing, destroy one another within the allotted three-day time frame.

This, however, was easier said than done.

Already, each mind was plotting the demise of another, planning the big speech to give the media when they made it out alive, the story they were going to tell the world.

Novels would be written. Biographies, autobiographies, short stories, memoirs. Movies would be made, paid actors acting as victims trapped in a house full of the deranged.

A horror story that has been told time and again, but this time followed by the words '_based on a true story.'_

Surviving this hell that they've been tossed into, the winner would escape with not only their life, but the right to tell the world, the right to claim fame, and the ability to live off royalties and never need the job of a common man.

Their lives and futures depended.

In their minds, each occupant was dredging up fictional details of poisonous spiders and an unnatural infestation of rats and roaches. Exaggeration at its best to sell the soul-sucking media.

Lies that are '_okay_' to tell. Lies that spoke of suffering and angst beyond that of the norm.

Starvation and decapitation in a Godless environment.

Everyone was thinking along these lines, or maybe not. But no one said otherwise when Misa screamed at the empty mouse trap stained dirty brown from a previous dead rodent. No one chastised Mikami for looking around in disgust and commenting about plausibly unsafe wiring. And no one corrected Takada for inspecting a stain on the wall and accusing it of being a patch of life-threatening mold.

Sometimes, the most average humans make the best actors, fueled by their own truths. In the right lighting, something very real could look like a backdrop, plastic and cardboard props that would fall over with slight persuasion. A stage no one wants to be on.

Every occupant had their own troubles, aside from simply making it out of this cobweb-strewn house of would-be violence, but voicing those troubles would be a weakness no one wanted to bear.

Still, they were teammates and enemies and companions and soon-to-be corpses, all rolled into one.

The Rules plain enough to understand and time as fragile as an elderly woman falling down a flight of stairs without the aid of LifeAlert, action was called for.

The unwritten Rule: _Something must happen_.

Misa's childish suggestion of using _Eeny Meeny Miney Mo _to decide who'd be unarmed and defenseless was ignored, and a primitive '_first come, first serve_' came into effect as the eight occupants split and scoured the house as individuals for available weapons.

Tables turned, drawers rummaged and left ajar, Takada was the first to procure something of use. From the kitchen, she drew not one- but TWO serrated knives with worn brown handles. She tucked one carefully beneath her sleeve and kept the other at hand. Biting her lip as a wave of anxiety swept through her, she crouched behind a mobile cart and moved to creep out of the kitchen just as Light was entering.

"Takada, was it?" He asked casually, sitting on the counter and crossing his legs like a distinguished gentleman.

Surprised, Takada backtracked and corrected her posture, standing fully and facing the charming brunette. "L-Light! I was just..."

"Calm down, Takada. Being on different teams doesn't mean we can't be allies, does it? A lady like you could use someone to watch your back, warn you when something's going on. You're a reporter, right? Maybe I could be your lead, feed you all the inside information..."

Staring into the brunette's soft earth-toned eyes, her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught between her lungs and her throat. "Light, I... -Call me Kiyomi." With those words, she approached him, small smile in place as she extended her hand and and offered the knife. "You... shouldn't be defenseless, Light."

Returning the smile, he placed his hand over hers, his flesh barely grazing hers as he held her stare. "This is very kind of you... _Kiyomi_." Then, tightening his grip on her hand, he lunged, forcing her own unsuspecting knife-wielding hand back toward her womanly form and plunging the blade through her right side, just deep enough to lodge the serrated steel between her ribs and puncture a lung.

Takada was torn between shock, anguish, and unrelenting pain as she tried to stumble back, but Light's hold on her persisted and halted any escape; her own arm angled uncomfortably and her hand was caught between his and the seeping wound. She felt the warmth of her own leaking essence and released a harrowing sound before finding her words... "H-How could you...?" Unable to properly form her accusation, she wanted to scream, but a choked sound escaped instead.

"I'm sorry, Takada. You're a very lovely woman." Light spoke softly and relinquished his grip on her, only to drop from the counter and wrap his arms around her, pulling her in close for a too-tight hug. "But," he continued, "three days isn't long to rid this house of seven people. Besides, the world won't miss one reporter, will it? The world is full of people like you, who will tell any story and smudge any truth to get their face out there, their name in the paper. It's wrong."

Takada leaned in and sobbed against his chest for all she was worth, carefully working to unsheathe the blade tucked beneath her sleeve. When she failed to do so after the first couple shakes of her arm, she panicked and shook harder, causing the hidden knife to slip and clatter to the floor.

Light took notice and offered a look of disapproval. "Kiyomi Takada, were you trying to cheat by holding a second knife? The Rules clearly said '_Knife, limit one per team_.' I imagine that you were breaking that rule by holding two. So, you're a liar and a cheater." He looked at her with disgust and shook his head.

Just then, the device around Takada's wrist let off a faint buzzing sound and increased the frequency of the pulse it emitted little by little until it became painful. Takada's instinct to fight suddenly kicked in and she shoved her way away from the brunette. The knife inside her forgotten and pain but a distant memory, she placed one hand over her racing heart and raised her left hand to look at her wrist as the flesh beneath the brace became an angry, burning red.

Light watched silently with mild interest as the display on the 'watch' faded and sparks flew.

Takada panted, and swung at Light with as much force as her weakened body could muster, face tinted rouge and tears streaming as she fell to her knees; then she turned her attention to her left limb and watched as her blood literally boiled beneath the flesh in her wrist and a vein burst. Angry blue swelled beneath her skin, darker than any bruise and swelling just enough to show how dire the situation was, the pressure built up, becoming less bearable by the second.

Eyes wide and shock setting in, she looked to Light for an ounce of compassion or consolation but found none. Instead, Light shrugged, kicked the previously dropped knife closer to her, and walked away, softly declaring "I have no sympathy for cheaters. Stay here and die if you want, but you did that to yourself and I won't bear witness to your demise."

And as Light left, Takada shakily took the knife in hand, bringing the sharp point of the blade to her searing, swelling red wrist, the cool metal feeling almost comforting at first... And then, applying force and ripping the blade sideways, her flesh peeled away and a fountain of red oozed and splashed, like the poor effects in a B-rated movie.

Grinding her teeth, Takada didn't even scream. Numb, shocked, and resigned, she pressed the blade to her flesh again, shredding the soft underside of her forearm to ribbons and breathing in rapid intervals as the pressure subsided and her skin became sticky and slick at the same time, blood lubricating until she slumped forward, slack and dying, her heartbeat slowing and the brace on her wrist fizzing and beeping for a moment before her life faded completely and the device slipped off like a used condom.

And just like that, one less reporter can show her face in front of the camera. The next time she'd be viewed publicly would be in a casket, her name in the paper. Her obituary. Her name on a tombstone, her own personal landmark.

_Kiyomi Takada_  
_1/12/1985 - Whatever..._

She'd be missed by the perverted cameraman she worked with. She'd be missed by her mother and step father. She'd be missed by the circle of friends she pretended to care about. And, her unborn, under-developed child wouldn't be born a bastard.

For some people -people like Miss Kiyomi Takada- this was as close to happy ending as they can get.

Your name in the paper, people to miss you, and a secret taken to the grave.

...

In another room, a particular redhead had just discovered a gun taped to the back of a curio cabinet. Peeling back the tape and taking the weapon in hand, he looked it over carefully and checked the bullet chamber, nodding when it appeared to be fully loaded.

He thought about his competition. He thought about the time frame. He thought about his own abilities and tried to factor in the little he could guess of his opponents...

Holding the gun, feeling the metal turn warm in his grip, a small part of him twinged at a memory long past, about his own father handing him a gun and instructing him how to load it, how to clean it, more importantly, how to use it. He remembered screaming and blood, walls hiding the evidence of what he'd done, and his own father instructing him on the most efficient way to remove such nasty red stains from the carpet.

"It works the same with red wine, but don't use too much ammonia," his father told him with a wink and a small smile: a smile the redhead would never forget... or forgive.

Taking a deep breath, he willed away the memory and tried to estimate his chances of making it out alive. He had a fully loaded revolver, six shots, and a total of seven people would need to be slain. Factor in the fact that others would be out to harm each other, if he stayed clear and kept his wits, survival was very possible.

Momentarily satisfied, he decided to make his way back to a Safe Zone and take a break from the stress.

Through a twisting maze of halls and doors, he passed the brunette known as Light, stopping to look at him -at the _red_ specks that stood out against his otherwise _spotless_ blazer- just before turning to take the stairs. Step by step, he knitted his brows together and looked down, paying attention to the dimensions of the steps as his hand smoothly glided along a railing. Once up the stairs, he turned and opened the door to the first bedroom he could find, appearing startled when L was already present. "S-Sorry," he murmured, lowering his head and avoiding eye contact. "I wasn't aware this room was taken. You're on the other team, so... I'll just go, and-"

"Opposing teams or not, Matt, this is a Safe Zone, and I refuse to attack unfairly," L said simply. "Cake?"

The strange offer caught the redhead's attention and caused him to look up. He was surprised to see that the man known as L was indeed eating a piece of cake. "Where did you...?"

"It was on the dining room table. As far as I know, there are plenty of foods and beverages, and even basic medical supplies."

"L, the cake could be poisoned."

L shook his head. "Unlikely. 33% chance of that happening." And he took a bite. Chewing his food and then speaking with his mouth still full, he stated "you found a gun."

Matt subconsciously gripped the revolver a little tighter. "Y-Yeah, I did. But I probably won't use it. I mean-"

"Why is that? Aren't you going to fight for your life? Or is there so little value in you that it is alright for someone to just kill you on a whim? Would you throw yourself away just because it's convenient? Or will you strive to move forward and progress in this spelunking?"

"It's not that easy, L. In a game, you can play the handsome lead role and do everything right, but sometimes you still unlock the ending where the bad guy wins. And, I just don't know about all... _this_." With that last word, he vaguely gestured to his surroundings.

L studied the teen's face intensely for a moment before saying, "If you don't make it out, it's because you didn't want to bad enough, or because someone else wanted it more."

Matt looked at L for a long minute before sitting down and refusing to give a response.

And L ate his cake.

...

Trapped in his own torture, Mello walked with his shadow in tow- but it was less of an actual shadow and more of Misa flanking him with wild outbursts grating on his nerves and echoing in his eardrums.

With his snark running low, Mello had enough of the female's behavior and was about to call her out on it, ready to explode. And that's exactly what he did. "MISA, YOU FUCKING BITCH! Teammates or not, I'm_ this close_(!)" he gestured, showing with his finger and thumb and the tiniest space between, "I'm _this close_ to cleaning your clock!"

"...but, Misa doesn't have a clock. Did Mello get her a clock?!" She squealed in delight and Mello palmed his forehead in a show of annoyance.

"Misa, go play. Or run with something sharp. Just... leave before I slap the bitch out of you." As he was yelling at his tag-along, he failed to keep tabs of his surroundings and ended up tripping over an ill-placed box in a small room filled with plastic-covered furniture -the kind you might see in a house up for auction after the previous resident died of old age. Hitting the floor with a thud and cursing - "fucking hell"- Mello glared at the box. Sitting up, he kicked the box away from him, expending a small portion of his anger.

Curious, Misa knelt beside the box -"It's a shoebox! Misa wonders if it has heels!"- and plucked the lid off, pouting when she saw the contents. "Ew, Mello, you can have it."

"Misa, I don't want fucking shoes! I want-" And he stopped, staring at the shiny metal that greeted his vision, artificial light reflecting off its surface. Wide-eyed, speechless, and more excited than he should have been, he reached for the weapon and shuddered at the feel of it when his fingers curled around it. Feeling the chill of metal and the weight of destruction in his grasp, he held a breath and brought it close for further inspection. He ran his fingers along the surface in way that mirrored worship. "I didn't think... it would be... so easy to find a..." and his words halted again as he popped open the chamber and found it completely empty, devoid of a single bullet. "FUCKING HELL!" He swore and chucked the weapon aside. Fuming. "A gun without bullets is about as useful as a fucking paperweight!"

...

Mikami slipped a pen in his pocket and held tight to a hammer he'd found. By his logic, knives were messy, and while he knew that guns were -somewhere- available, he hardly felt like searching for something that might not even be loaded -implied with the Rules specifically saying _low ammunition_. So, he figured he'd find regular everyday objects and make use of them. He'd found rope, a pen, a hammer, and a first-aid kit... along with a book he could use to entertain himself if and when applicable in a Safe Zone.

Gratified, for the most part, he continued to search for anything of value, eventually finding himself stepping onto the tiles of the kitchen floor.

What he saw next caused him to drop his hoard.

Miss Takada's body, wide eyed and bathing in a dark red lake. Looking closer, the way her hair was pushed back, a scar from a facelift was visible, though that hardly compared to the horror of her oozing left wrist: the hand, no longer topped with the hi-tech bracelet, just barely attached to her body. The stench of decay had not yet set in, but the foul seed of death was reeking of fruition.

The way the knife protruded, it could have been an accident, or suicide, or even... murder. Any three of the scenarios were a possibility, Mikami thought, looking her over and covering his nose and mouth with his hand to lessen the stench and urge to vomit.

Reclaiming his hoard, he stepped over the death-mess and claimed a bag, placing his spoils inside for convenience. Then, sparing her one last look, Mikami shook his head and made his exit.

As much as it sickened him, people were going to die. He couldn't save everyone, and he knew it would be foolish to try. A part of him ached for the injustice, but a larger part knew that sometimes, for the good of others, it was a necessity.

His own life's experience had warped altered his previously naive morals, as could be expected of a man like himself, brought up by more tragedy than naught.

He was a lawyer, and while his intent was to protect the innocent and do good for others, sometimes, he got a guilty defendant... but he still did his job, won the case, released another criminal. It wasn't meant to be that way, but there were always justifications.

Sometimes he lost sleep over it, but more often than not, he had himself a scotch, took a dose of NyQuil, and slept like a baby. A wealthy and corrupt child with a dying sense of self righteousness.

He took it a day at a time, one case at a time, one trial and consequence over another. After a particularly disgusting criminal -a foul mouthed rapist with more blood under his fingernails than a rat has in its entire body- after said criminal was slapped with a bit of community service but otherwise released and free to roam, the whole matter was tucked away. A shelf memory at work. With the following day, the next case, it was like the previous one didn't matter. It was about as real as a false memory from the second grade -the one others talk about, and it almost seems real, but it's as questionable as a fat man delivering presents on Christmas, squeezing down tiny chimneys just to give children toys.

Every day, every holiday, every event, just one more memory to add and knock another off the shelf. As far as Mikami was concerned, he didn't have a childhood, and he was looking forward to the destruction of his teen years and early adulthood. He beckoned each new day to put his past out of his own misery.

As far as Mikami was concerned, when he made it out of this 3-day situation, he planned to go on as if nothing had happened.

Just another fading memory, another case he didn't want to dream about. Another glass of scotch. Another dose of NyQuil. Another nice cleansing nap to wash away and baptize the hell from his tarnished life.

There was no great war, no destruction of morale.

He was not a victim.

And denial is truly the best way to self-medicate.

...

All on his lonesome, the albino sat at a desk in what might have been a home office in its prime. Parchment in front of him and a quill pen in hand, he dipped for ink and drew up a note:

_To whom it may concern,  
If you are reading this rather than hearing it from my own mouth, I am dead.  
I am writing in regards to what has been labeled The HLiS-C murder case... and while I have studied it extensively, never have I been closer to solving it than now, when I have become the sacrificial subject of someone else's amusement._

_It appears that cameras and bugs are planted in various locations, and from afar, our captor watches our every move._  
_Whether this is simply a game or a test of human will, I've yet to understand._

_Though one thing is certain._  
_People are going to die._

_I am writing this so that, in the event that I do not make it out alive, someone can read this and know what happened. Because, if this case goes unsolved, it will likely happen again._

_An even number of people are locked in together, split into teams, and told to kill each other within three days. But there's more to it than that. Though my actions have been slight, I have been conducting an experiment of sorts. Always being in the camera's view, I have done various little tasks, some to entertain myself, and some to guage the opinion of the viewer._

_The device on my wrist -everyone seems to have one- it gets intensely hot (to the point of causing severe discomfort) when I do something that is not appreciated by whom I suppose is my captor._

_-Things that cause the device to heat up:_  
_Stating that I refuse physical conflict._  
_Insulting the childish nature of the situation at hand: the cliche setup._  
_Removing a camera/bug._  
_Telling a fellow 'occupant' about the cameras. (I mentioned it in passing to Mikami, who simply complained about 'faulty wiring.')_

_-While those are the things I know to have caused the device to heat up, I have no doubt that it is a way for someone to keep some form of control over what we do. I imagine that it could be a way to reprimand someone who breaks the Rules._

_There is no way of knowing how this is going to end, but I doubt it will end well._

_A strange thing worth noting is, while we've been here and conscious for hours (and possibly unconscious for longer), the sun has yet to rise._  
_I have to wonder if is really still dark, or if my perception of time has already deteriorated._

_-N_

Signing the bottom of the parchment and putting it in a desk drawer, Near got up and slowly left the room, his soft sock-clad feet padding the floors.

Upon spotting Mikami, he offered a polite greeting of "Hello, Teru Mikami."

Mikami nodded in a show of acknowledgement before stating: "I found Miss Takada's body."

"...she's dead," Near summarized bluntly, easily catching the meaning.

Another nod came from Mikami. "I've gathered a few things," he gestured to the bag he carried. "I was looking for Light... and Matt, and you... - our teammates. I was thinking that it would be best to meet up in a Safe Zone and rest, then accomplish something as a team tomorrow."

"Yes, that might be a good idea," Near said carefully, eying Mikami and searching for something that wasn't quite there.

Without any further word exchange, the two began their search for Light Yagami, Mikami in the lead and Near trailing a few steps behind.

Their search came to an end when the brunette found them first, briskly walking over and waving casually. "Should we meet up in a Safe Room? I just checked, and the master bedroom is spacious and empty."

"What about our fourth teammate?" Mikami asked, though the sincerity of his concern was questionable at best.

"I believe his name was Matt," Near stated, tone bored.

Light shook his head. "I haven't seen him since... -It's been a while. I just hope he's okay." Light's words said one thing, but his eyes spoke volumes of indifference toward the redhead in question.

"I think we should eliminate the other team before doing anything else," Mikami blurted, eyes wide and attention focused on Light, tone reminiscent of a child telling Santa that he'd been a good boy all year and would like a Hot Wheels race track.

Near remained quiet, stepping back and observing the two adults he was supposed to call allies, though he could easily read them. Light: the charming and deceitful snake that would sooner betray than assist. And Mikami: the man who valued foreign validation above personal pride...

It was a recipe for disaster.

All three of them knew it.

And they headed to the master bedroom, entering and closing the door behind them. Light claimed the bed; Mikami claimed a lounge; and Near sat on the floor, his attention suddenly captivated by a puzzle he found stashed under the bed.

...

Mello had gone back and reclaimed the gun he'd initially tossed once he'd located three bullets in an ashtray he'd found in the foyer, though he'd yet to lose the ever-present Misa Amane, much to his disdain.

Deciding to call in a night, the two found themselves in a guest bedroom with Misa hopping onto the bed and coughing when a cloud of dust resulted from the compressed mattress.

"It's dirrrrty! Misa doesn't like the filth!" she whined, but Mello was learning to block out her screeching annoyance.

Having nothing better to do, Mello twirled the gun round his finger, the trigger guard acting as an unbalanced hula hoop; he cursed and sighed in relief when he dropped the weapon and then managed to catch it. Then he plopped down onto a beanbag chair and looked toward the ceiling, silently mapping out little pictures in the textured panels. When that became too boring, he looked toward a window and arched a brow.

"The stars..." he found himself saying. "The fuck..." He got up with a groan and a protest of muscles that longed to relax, and he closed the gap between himself and the window. Like all the other windows, this one was barred from the outside. "Misa," he called over his shoulder, "toss me one of your bitch-heels."

Misa scowled and shook her head.

"Misa, do as I say, or I'll bust your teeth in."

Whining in that horrid voice, she unstrapped and removed her precious footwear before lightly tossing it in Mello's general direction.

The pink shoe hit Mello's thigh and fell to the floor, and Mello picked it up, just barely managing to hold back his building anger. "Fuckin' bitch," he seethed quietly, gripping the shoe tightly and slamming it heel-first into the window. The first hit made an annoying 'thud' against the glass, but the second hit caused it to crack; one more hit caused it to finally break: a small jagged hollow marring the center of a web of fractured lines. Then... "I knew it," he said, voice in awe. "The star cracked with the glass." Dropping the shoe, he pressed his hand to the cold surface and traced the fracture with his fingertips, touching a star that had been _painted_ on.

Misa looked confused and said "That's impossible! Stars are either in the sky or in Hollywood; they can't-"

"Misa," Mello growled, "shut up and let me hear myself think." Turning his attention back to the window, he marveled. "So simple, but so stupid... Stars painted on glass, the windows barred from the outside, and a dark cover over the outer-side of the bars, painted to look like the night sky. It could be in the middle of the afternoon, but it would still look like the late evening... The question is, why?"

Mello had no sooner finished voicing his thoughts when Misa spoke again, shrieking "IT IS OFFICIALLY DAY TWO, ACCORDING TO THE UGLY BRACELET! THAT MEANS WE CAN GO HOME TOMORROW!"

And that was it, the last straw that was barring Mello's hate and rage. His heart elevating and his head pounding, he turned his attention to the blonde female and wailed angry, gun raised and hand shaking: "Fucking idiot! I can't even-"

_Bang!_

Mello's eyes widened.

A shot had been fired... but not from the blonde's own gun.

...

* * *

**As far as we know: **

**Takada is dead.  
L and Matt (opposing teams) are together.  
Light, Mikami, and Near are together.  
And Mello and Misa are together.  
-NOW, DAY TWO IS ABOUT TO START.**


End file.
